poeticdesires

Category: Wisdom

  • Unique

    No one is a special special snowflake. No matter what you may believe, what your parents taught you, your teachers, your mentors, or whoever wanted to get into your pants.

    You are not a special special snowflake. I say this as much to anyone else as to myself.

    For a time, I have been left with a dilemma.

    I love body modifications. I have multiple piercings and tattoos, with plans for more. However, my vision for my body was knocked end-over-end when I learned someone who I rather disliked (and thankfully is no longer in my life) has a similar body mod to one which I wanted to acquire.

    All of a sudden the idea germinating in my mind was tainted. Before I was expressing who I was, who I am. It was to be a reminder to myself of both my inner beauty and outer radiance. When I learned of their modification, I was left with the thought of my new addition, should I procure it, being associated with this person.

    I am not a special special snowflake.

    There is but so much real estate on any body to augment, and there are so very many people in this world. No matter what, somewhere there is someone who has the exact some modifications as mine, and I, should I ever meet them, may indeed hate them. So what?

    When I mentioned my problem to a coworker, he commented that my dilemma was the reason why he never got any body mods. Every time he had an idea for one, he’d see it or something similar on someone else. He wanted to be unique.

    But I don’t have body modifications because I believe I’m a special special snowflake. My tattoos and piercings are expressions of myself. They are meaningful, beauteous, and, at times, just ornamentation. But they are mine.

    The more I think on this, the more foolish I feel. It is my body, my want, my meaning. It matters not how anyone else chooses to augment themselves, nor should their reasoning have any effect on my sentiment to my changes.

    To think, I’ve wasted time and energy fretting over this…

    My beauty is from within; I choose how I wish to display this on my skin. Similarities to others be damned.

  • Metaphorically Speaking

    Recently I read a blog entry by my friend Graydancer asking what metaphors do we live by and how those metaphors contribute to our lives. His, unfortunately, was of a crumbling house built on love. Mine, unfortunately, were not much better.

    Cabin Bitch

    The first metaphor that came to mind was Cabin Bitch. My title, so earned at Rope Camp and lasting still, fits quite well. I strive to do for others, to put in the work to make others happy, to be the bitch for those around me so their lives are made better.

    My title feeds into my need to be helpful, to be the one who saves the day, who has what’s needed, who produces the coin.

    But there is an obvious downside to this. If I am looking out for everyone else, who is looking out for me? SkinnyBitch once told me (not in reference to my own actions) that those who seek to take care of everyone else do so because they do not take care of themselves.

    Have I been taking care of me? Have I given as much time, care, attention, energy, affection as I do to everyone else in my life? The blunt and sadly true answer is no.

    Teacher’s Pet

    The second metaphor that came to mind was Teacher’s Pet. I was so dubbed almost a year ago at Dark Odyssey Fusion.

    I know, full well though, that I have been a Teacher’s Pet for as long as I can remember. In school, I always got good grades. I always threw my hand up to answer questions, to give my opinion. I always worked hard, did my best, and was often on the Honor Roll. But, even more than that, I wanted attention from the teacher, from the person in charge.

    I know my school girl fetish was fed on the times when I was singled out by mentors. In third grade, my teacher took me out on special dinners, doting on me. In high school, I spent time after school most days with my Math teacher. Granted this was partly out of convenience, but I still sought his approval, his attention. For a time, I battled him in the classroom, believing (and I still do) that I was smarter than he. Even still, it fed into my desire to be the best, to be worthy of his attention, and, dare I say it, his affection.

    My Teacher’s Pet persona is so a part of me, I could never let it go. It would be like asking me to stop feeling like me; the quirky slutty inner twenty-five year old just would not have that. Teacher’s Pet may just be the only metaphor I do not look down upon and will keep for all my days.

    Freelancer/Lone Soldier

    As much as I want to be owned, as much as I want to be a part of something greater than myself, I often identify as a freelancer. Not only is it my job title, it feels like my life title. I go where life takes me. No one takes hold of me. No permanent attachments. No unending loyalties.

    This metaphor only goes but so far. I know full well that if I were completely free of attachments or loyalties, I would not be living where I am. I would’ve moved to New York or LA right out of college. I would have a very different life.

    Big Bro once called me a Lone Soldier. His metaphor is closer to how I feel, though he cautioned me against it. Being unpartnered, it often feels like I’m going it alone. Though I have a network of close friends, when I go to bed at night it’s just me and Tessie. I have no one to curl up to, no one’s arms to snuggle in, rest my head, take my ease. No one to bitch about my work, plan for future fun, share my life.

    Big Bro didn’t want me to take up the moniker because he knows it is but a temporary state, a place holder for my future self. And that is what I keep telling myself.

    But every day that goes by without me finding those partners for my life, everyday my Daddy hasn’t come home yet, it feels more and more true.

    And Thus…

    So no, I don’t believe my metaphors are enhancing my life. In fact, I know I need to work against them, to push past them, to think of new metaphors for who I want to be, for who I strive to be.

    My metaphors are me running off an old script. I need to get cracking on new material.

  • Passing By

    Twice in the past month I’ve almost run into the Ex. He is still employed by a company I occasionally work for. Both times it was when I was driving, dropping off rental equipment, and, if I had lagged at the rental house for but a few minutes, we would have interacted.

    It’s been two years since I broke up with him. Two years since he drove his mother, in my car, with me in the back seat, to our shared apartment in hopes that she would live with us. Two years since, after I hurriedly drove away from our home, I sat in my car, the same car I own now, sobbing, screaming, crying, not knowing what to do. Two years since that horrible conversation outside in the parking lot. Two years since I gave back his necklace. Two years.

    Fuck, how my life has changed.

    When I think back on who I was then, who I was with him, I am both sad and relieved. I spent three and a half years of my life, some of which you can read about on this very blog, waiting for a man to change. Waiting for him to make good on the hints he would drop. Waiting for him to commit to me as much as I had committed to him. Waiting for three words I never got.

    I can’t hate him. I still care about him, though I would never seek out anything from him and pretty much avoid him at all costs. It wasn’t that he was a horrible man; if he were I would not have stayed so long. And though at first glance he came off as hard, stern, a bit scary, he was mostly sweet and caring towards me. Of course except when he wasn’t. I can’t lie; I liked the moments when he dominated me.

    No, I’m not sad about the relationship. It was what we never achieved together that saddens me. It was how he didn’t change, didn’t grow, that truly makes me want to cry. He was a manchild, from the beginning of our interactions til the end. And though I was far younger than he, I often felt like the adult in the relationship.

    I had plans, goals for us. In the end, it seemed like he would be content to just stay as we were: cohabiting, but with no compass to guide us; emotionally choked off, not willing to talk about his feelings and therefore implicitly asking for my silence; me always wanting more and he never seeming to care.

    When I saw him recently, I noticed he had shaved his face. I never cared for that particular look. I always liked his scruffy beard, even as it got in the way when we kissed. As I passed by him in my van, he in his truck, I gave him a head nod. He returned it. There was no malice, no anger or hurt, just acknowledging the other’s presence and moving on.

    It could’ve just been work, or the first hot day of the Spring, but he didn’t seem happy. His ill temper was not directed towards me. I’ve noticed in the few times I have interacted with him since the split that he reverted back to his easily annoyed persona. Like I said, manchild.

    Even so, I learned a lot from my Ex. He helped me in my kink journey, teaching me as we grew together. I still remember once lying on his bed as he pulled out a book and talked to me about negotiations, the first time I’d had a formal conversation about play. He fostered my love of rope, though only from a bottom’s perspective. And when times were good, we were playful and, dare I admit it, happy.

    But, good or bad, he taught me quite a bit about what I don’t want in a partner. I need emotional openness, even as I struggle within myself to achieve it alone. I need affection, the simple ability to hold someone’s hand; he was not much for PDA. I need acknowledgement of our relationship; he called me his girlfriend once. I need a partner and a friend, not “She just keeps showing up and I never kick her out.” It was cute the first time; by the sixth, I just wanted to scream.

    All that aside, whatever his life has been in the past two years, I hope he has lived it well and found room to grow.

    With this blog as a testament, I know I sure have.

  • Paying The Toll

    Most of the time I’m pretty happy with my life. Most of the time, I feel like I’m doing what I want, living a life that I love. Most of the time things are good.

    And then there are days like today, when my life feels lacking, when all I want is to find the first somebody, to take that first deep breath out, relax into their arms, and think Okay.

    All this waiting and hoping and wishing for the first one to appear, for us to meet, for it to be time. It feels like I’m paying a toll. It feels like this crummy day will be made up sometime in the future with a spectacular moment or an awesome event or just simple happy times with a person I love.

    I hate paying the toll.

    When I have days like this, I know whatever emotions or reactions to situations I have are not really me. They are the hyper-me, the cliche me, the to-the-nth-degree me. I cry easier. Even the slightest advice or reprimand feels edged, grates harder, cuts deeper. I am quick to anger, easily annoyed, and just as rushed to turn fallen, gone, lost.

    I have to be very careful on these days. I make no major decisions. It’s harder to let things go or forget simple mistakes. These days are the ones where I really have to work on Forgiveness.

    I don’t feel sexy. I don’t feel wanted. During most of the day, I will feel like shit. I’ll be quieter than normal, won’t attempt to engage in conversation. It will be hard for me to smile. If one does cross my lips, it will feel fake.

    I don’t have these days often, maybe once every few months. So, about four to six times a year, for a day, I feel like shit. I am paying the toll.

    On these days, I don’t appreciate the multitude of friends I have. I can’t remember all the fun events I’ve been to, the amazing scenes I’ve participated in, the memories of all the good in my life. On these days, at any moment, I am a breath away from crying. I’m glad I don’t have a lot of these days.

    Now, at twenty-eight, I can tell pretty quickly when they are happening. It usually takes something small and I’ll feel it, that turn, the switch flipped. I take a deep breath, let the first few tears stream down, quickly wipe them away, and go about my day.

    I know a lot of my life, for those twenty-four hours, will be lived in my head. I harden myself to Green Eyes. I try not to let despair engulf me. I take deep breaths. I try to get by.

    And I know, come the next day, I will feel better. I will be less pessimistic. I will talk to my roommates or exercise or listen to the right kind of music (there is so much music I cannot listen to today, it’s kind of ridiculous). I will vent (as per this entry). By this time tomorrow, I will feel better.

    Deep breath out. Blink back tears. Get through today.

    PS. I wrote this during lunch. It’s now bedtime. I talked to SkinnyBitch. We made dinner together. We drank white wine. We watched Doctor Who and Archer. I feel better. Toll paid.

  • Broken Rule

    I made a rule for myself for this year that I will, finally, break. It took two full months, but it is indeed time.

    It was my plan to take every Sunday off in 2012. I thought if I did this I would devote at least four hours of the day to working on my almost finished novel and open myself up to spending time with family and friends. The spending time with people did, in fact, happen, and I am happy for the relaxing rejuvenating moments.   The working on the novel though…

    So this Sunday, for the first time this year, I am working.

    And even as I know it is the right decision ($120 for less than an hour of effort, if you can even call plugging some stuff in and fiddling with a few nobs effort), I am still disappointed. I set a goal for myself, and I have not been living up to it.

    I have worked on my novel precious little.  If I had devoted even half the time I told myself I would, Sticky (the name of my story) would be fit for print by now. Instead I’ve left it by the wayside, again.

    The major factor for me deciding to work some Sundays (no, this instance will not be a one off) is money. I can make a lot of money doing simple gigs on Sundays. In fact, the majority of my paychecks are earned Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

    I had been trying to make up for the lost day in packing my schedule throughout the rest of the week, but letting those possible high paying hours pass by has gotten to hard. And after having booked my plane tickets for IMsL, I can no longer deny that I need to increase my revenue stream if I hope to end this year by some miracle broken even; in the black is probably a pipe dream.

    So already I have to amend my year’s road map. I will only accept the high paying Sunday gigs, leaving me some time to spend with family and friends.  I will not work every Sunday. 

    I’m trying to figure out a way to make working on Sticky as habitual as working on my blog, but that notion is difficult to conceive. It’s almost easy for me to write a blog every day; I won’t let myself go to sleep without doing it. 

    Something in my brain bugs me when I try to be lazy. “You didn’t write yet.  You know you’re suppose to write every day.  How about that incident with your coworker, or that hot image you have in your head, or that one awesome line you thought up?  Come on, just one page.  Just one short little page and I’ll stop poking you in the brain all night.” 

    But figuring out how to be creative on the same topic every day….

    I’m not sure how I will make this happen, but at least it is in my mind’s eye. I’ve got to start somewhere.

    For now I leave you with a thought: When is money everything, and when is it nothing?
    [I suspect how one answers that speaks volumes as to who they are as a person and what kind of life they have, and wish to have, lived.]

  • Avoidance

    I often equate my job with being a hustler or a whore.

    Since I am a freelancer, I don’t work full time for any one company, though I pick and choose my gigs carefully. I work for about half a dozen different entities, going where the money is.

    Company X is my favorite. They pay me the most and work me the least. Company Z is my least favorite. They pay me (almost) the least and work me twice as hard. I work for X a lot. I work for Z rarely.

    However, recently, I had a gig with Z. It is the slow season and, frankly, when Z is the only work I can find it feels like I have no choice. I ended up on a rather large gig late at night, wanting nothing more than to finish and go the fuck home.

    Sometimes life has this way of fucking with me. If I had chosen to take the slow elevator, I would have ended up working on the top floor. Instead I walked towards the faster elevator and ran into the crew head, who said I should stay on the ground floor.

    This had two results. One, my work would not be as labor intensive, yeah. Two, I would have to work with the bitch.

    I’m not using the term ‘bitch’ in a sweet or caring or loving manner. This chick is a bitch. I’ve known her for the entirety of my professional life and have yet to work a gig with her where she didn’t piss me off in some small, large, or I-want-to-stab-her-eyes-out way.

    She has this innate ability to make me feel like she thinks I’m stupid, I’m incompetent, or I should be worshipping at her feet, learning all that she knows. Her voice rarely imbues a tone that is not arrogant. She is one of the reasons why I avoid company A like the plague.

    The bitch has, in the past, submitted her resume to company B in hopes of generating more work. Since company X is small, the crew coordinator asks members of the current crop of workers about anyone who shows interest in joining the crew base. All of us flatly told them to never, ever allow this woman on their crew rotation. She is a great worker, but yes, she is that bitchy.

    And so I found myself working with her, kicking myself for not going upstairs, but also for accepting the gig in the first place. But I did my usual mental jujitsu. Whatever, I need money.

    So we began working.

    And a funny thing happened. I barely had to deal with her. I choose a kind of shitty project that I knew would take me the better part of my shift to complete. I was perfectly okay with this because I realized, after I volunteered for it, that I would be able to avoid the bitch almost completely for the entire time.

    Avoidance is a mighty fine thing. I practice it often in my life. Yes, I know I should face my problems and issues head on, but sometimes I conclude that the hassle of dealing with certain motherfuckers isn’t worth the effort. In my family life, it is my crazy preacher Uncle. In my kink life, it is those who fall into the category of crazy. In my work life, it is the bitch.

    As I performed my tedious menial task, far far away from the bitch, I was quite happy. Even as my back ached a little (I had to keep reminding myself to engage my core as I bent down), inside I smiled. I knew I was doing a good job. I knew that no one could say shit about my distance, seeing as the equipment I packed away was spread out and I’d picked the project what no one else wanted to do.

    So, at the end of the night, when I finally had to deal with the bitch momentarily, I was golden. I knew I only had about fifteen minutes left and hoped she wouldn’t be able to piss me off too badly in that time, seeing as there were lots of other people around to buffer her. And I was right. She only mildly annoyed me, a great improvement from our past interactions.

    So, let this be a lesson. Yes, it is important to discover and own your feelings. Yes, it is important to face obstacles head on and conquer them. But, sometimes, a little avoidance can go a long way, especially when it comes to dealing with bitches.

  • Panic

    Recently I hurt a friend.

    There was a miscommunication. I jumped to conclusions. I went into protect myself mode. And, in the process, I let them down. For that I apologized. We have since reconciled and all is well with our friendship.

    But as soon as things were better again, I began wondering why things had gone so wrong in the first place.

    The short answer is I panicked.

    I am a planner, not by profession but just as a general personality trait. I need to know details, information. I need to be able to say for certain I will be at this place at this time doing this activity.

    This habit was brow beaten into me during my high school years. The only way I was ever able to hang out with my friends was if I knew all the details of our excursion and imparted this information to my mother in advance. Otherwise a curt “no” was her answer.

    As an adult, I have come to do this for my own self easing. In part I continued this practice because it was good to have the information. But, to be brutally honest with myself, I know this habit has a lot to do with my Ex.

    My Ex was a manchild. He made more money than me and worked in my industry longer, yet I had less debt, owned a car, and lived in much better accommodations.

    It wasn’t long into our relationship that I learned I needed to make all the plans. He was very lazy about our outings. We once showed up for a company party after it had ended. He hadn’t bothered to check the event times.

    We once almost missed a theatre performance because he didn’t look up the address of the venue. It was that particular incident which tweaked my annoyance level the most. Before we left, I asked him specifically if he knew where the venue was. He said he did. I asked if he was sure, offering to look up the information. He assured me he knew where we were going.

    When we pulled up to the wrong theatre, too close to the start of the show, I kicked myself for not looking up the location. Unfortunately I did not do this with my mouth closed. He grumbled his discomfort as I called information to find out the address. (This was before I owned my fancy phone.)

    When we arrived at the theatre, it turned out our tickets were for the week before. The box office gave us tickets in the same seats for the show that evening, no charge. After the show, I told him I was sorry for my outburst. We were able to attend the performance, not missing any part of it.

    (But did you catch that? I apologized to him for criticizing him, even though he fucked up, twice. Yeah, my relationship with my Ex was not emotional healthy in the least.)

    So, with those paragraphs of explanation, I can now get to the crux of my realization.

    It is hard for me to trust people when it comes to planning events. It is hard for me to have faith that people won’t fuck up in some way, thereby screwing me in the process. It is hard for me to not immediately jump ship just because the deck is damp.

    In my mind, I have to take care of myself. I am an independent contractor, making sure my shit smells like roses. So if I get a whiff of funk, I immediately go into panic mode. I find a solution for myself and allow others to live or die on their failings.

    In how I hurt my friend, I did not trust that they had everything taken care of. I doubted their abilities. I panicked. And for that I was and am truly sorry.

    Sadly, to be frank, I’m not quite sure how I can keep myself from doing this again.

    Suggestions?

  • Freedom

    Recently I was offered a full time job with a company I like. The work would’ve been nothing difficult and it would’ve paid me more than I made in all of 2010 by about five thousand dollars. I turned it down.

    For nearly the whole of my professional life, I have worked as a freelancer. I’ve spent six years in an industry that often chews people up and spits them out. I’m getting to the age where one of three things happen:

    1- You accept the fact that you will always be a grunt and just work more to earn more.
    2- You get a full time job in another line of work and walk away with the many stories from your days as a freelancer.
    3- You move up, advance, or find some other position with a company that does not work your body as hard.

    Recently I spoke about how I now have to deal with the challenges of leading more for certain companies. In my industry, I’ve kind of made it. I believe I made quite a bit more this year than last year, though I’m still waiting on my multiple W-2s to confirm this.

    Taking this job would have been smart. It would have been guaranteed work with a set schedule. No surprises, no slow seasons. Just ten hours a day five days a week, 10-99 (no taxes taken out). But I didn’t.

    The reason why my life is so brilliant currently is the same reason why I couldn’t take that job: freedom.

    I choose my schedule. Granted it is dependent upon me finding work for the days in which I wish to get paid, but that comes down to hustling. When I want to take a day off, I just say I can’t work it. If my friends plan something and I get enough notice ahead of time, I will cancel a gig. I’ve canceled with every company I currently work for and they still call me back.

    Why? Because I’m good at what I do. I show up on time (if not early). I come with not only a degree, but the knowledge I’ve built up in my six years of experience. Six years of dealing with bullshit. Pushing through when all I want to do is sleep. Being a bleeding heart liberal black woman who still works well with misogynists and nepotists and racists and conservatives.

    They trust me enough to toss me keys, tell me the warehouses to visit, pick up their gear, and bring it back. They trust me enough to send me out with a truck full of equipment, a basic idea of what the client wants, a crew of 1-3 people, and belief in my ability to load in, watch over, and break down a show.

    With my kink life soaring, with my new found status of social butterfly, I could not accept that job. I already paid for multiple events. I already planned out parts of my year. I set goals. I know what I want for the next eleven months. A full time job was not it.

    Just last year I thought I was going to get a stable and secure position in an all together different industry. I submitted an application, along with an extensive resume that included my job history all the way back to college. I interviewed, twice. I went through drug testing. I thought I had it in the bag. Then came a curve ball, and it was over.

    And ever since, I’ve been so happy that it didn’t work out. In the allure of the stability, I forgot how much I love my freedom, love that I can lead the life I now have. Love that I can be me without hiding, without (too much) judgement. Love that my life is how I shape it, not fitting into a monotonous mold.

    So no full time stable job for me, at least not in 2012. 2013…? Let’s see how the next eleven months go.

  • Nag

    Recently I acted like a well adjusted emotionally aware adult.

    I received a request from a friend, to which I immediately and gladly said yes. But, as soon as I gave my agreement, there was a nag in the back of my throat, a little pop in my brain. I felt something, I wasn’t quite sure what, but I knew I needed to talk to them about it.

    So, being the highly evolved person that I am, I actually spoke up. I quite inarticulately expressed my feelings, my reservations. In stumbling language, I described my nag. Together, we worked through my issue. We are now good.

    I feel the need to write about this moment for one very big reason.

    In a previous post I spoke about the three words that I would like to color my year (bravery, forgiveness, and endurance). In this instance, I could have reacted differently. I could have swallowed my feelings. I could have seen this as me being petty or envious or “over emotional.” I could have ignored that nag and tried to move on.  But I didn’t.

    Instead, I forgave myself for having the feeling, because I was feeling quite guilty over my emotions. I was brave and spoke to my friend almost immediately about it. I stopped myself from accepting the hurt and found a way to move beyond the moment. I thought about and spoke about my feelings. I talked it out and came to multiple acceptable conclusions. I helped make myself feel better without sacrificing myself as a person.

    So far, almost two weeks into my three words year, I’m liking the results. Let’s see if I can keep this up.

  • Recharging

    Once again my friend Graydancer wrote something that got me thinking; I know, shocking. Read his entry, then read my thoughts which came to mind when I pondered “What recharges me?”.

    – When I’m driving, alone, often on my way to see friends, but occasionally on my way to work, I’ll just sing. I’ll sing loudly and proudly, and probably badly, but I let go. For the good songs, I start car dancing, rocking my shoulders and hips back & forth. Usually I’ll end up speeding, dashing through traffic with cat-like skill and precision (yes, I know, not the best adult behavior). Always, always, I smile throughout.

    – When there is no one in the house, and I feel relaxed and at ease, I wash my toys, put on my masturbation playlist (what, doesn’t everyone have one?), and I don’t just masturbate, I fuck myself. Best of all, I let myself scream.

    When I’m coming, I love to scream, usually the name of the person helping to facilitate my fun. When I’m alone, though, I call out Daddy along with a multiple curse words or deities. Sometimes I entertain the idea of audio recording myself during my fun, but I never have. That time is mine and no one else’s (well, one other person, but I haven’t met him yet).

    – My sleeping buddy is soft, squishy, and oh so hug-able. At night, when I’m naked and under my covers, I press him against my chest, run my face on his fur, and drift off to sleep, Cabin Shell watching over me.

    – This blog is a testament to my love of writing. However, there are words that I put on paper that you will never see. I carry a small brown journal where I jot down thoughts, ideas, worrying questions, wondrous dreams, and any other fucking thing I please.

    One night recently I finished my blog early and still found myself writing before bed, this time in my journal. Beyond processing, it is my special pages, my mind on paper, expelling all the swirly words that need to not be in my head anymore.

    – After I finish my run or my yoga DVD, I always feel better than when I started. My exercise is not a New Year’s resolution, but more a means to an end. If I work out, my rigging improves. If I work out, I like the way my body looks more. If I work out, the endorphins get me high. If I work out, I like me more.

    Once, I processed some emotions while on the treadmill, broke down crying while I jogged, and quieted myself before either of the roommates saw. I pushed through not only the pain in my legs and chest, but also the pain in my heart. Feeling it thump in my torso, breathing heavy, exhaustion at my heels, I am over run by the accomplishment of getting my ass off the couch, out of bed, or just up and doing something.

    – Happy Hour, lunch at the mall, or just chilling in their homes, being with my friends is sometimes just the salve I need to heal my loneliness, boredom, despair or doldrums. It’s not the alcohol, or the cute baby (though my niece is super awesome), but the time I get to spend with my chosen family.

    The long meandering conversations, the catching up, the highs, the lows, the new, the old. It’s telling my kinky stories or hearing about their annoyances at work. It’s about introducing new names into their lexicon when it comes to those I care about or about learning what new passion invigorates them. It’s about meeting new people and cherishing all those who are already there. Above all others, being with my friends, whether for four days or four hours, renews and recharges me.

    So, what recharges you?